The Photograph
by BlitheringBard
Summary: They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but some images hold the power to do more than merely speak to us. Some can irrevocably change the way we perceive the world — and who we are.


In which we fill white space and irritate the reader. Better known as:** Cover Thy Arse. **You know the words. Say it with me now. _All Things FFX Belong to Square-Enix_. What follows is my first one-shot. It's not all that and a bag of chips, but I rather like it. Hopefully, you will too. The rating is for the somewhat hard boiled attitude and mild language of my protagonist. Other than that, it's fairly harmless. Enjoy. [bb]  
  
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**_The Soul's distinct connection  
With immortality  
Is best disclosed by Danger  
Or quick Calamity  
As Lightning on a Landscape  
Exhibits Sheets of Place  
Not yet suspected — but for Flash  
And Click — and Suddenness  
Develops still unsuspected  
Fork — Bolt_**  
  
_— Emily Dickinson  
_  
  
  
  
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**The Photograph**  
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No one knew for certain how long the little hut had stood — solid and intact. It had survived the judgment of false-gods, sporadic monsoons, and the modernization of a Spira ensconced within a new age. Good neighbors marveled at its longevity. The shallow scoffed. Like its owner, the antiquated structure took no heed of these things and just went about the business of remaining upright.   
  
It was the center of the universe as far as the deed-holder was concerned. It held everything he needed. Everything he held dear.There was his favorite chair, an extensive book collection, and — most precious of all — his grandson, Charlie. The two of them were all that was left of their bloodline. The rest had been taken by Sin, by illness, or other pitiless distortions of fate; leaving the youngest and the eldest to make their way alone together through this unique experience we call life. There is a convergence of viewpoint that enables those at opposite ends of that journey to find affinity — neither cares for what others think and both are at a place where they can choose to play or to be sullen. This spring-winter compatibility had manifested itself particularly well between Charlie and his grandfather, Banosh — creating that distinctive contentment where they felt secure in each other's company._  
_  
Time would eventually take that comfort from them — as time is wont to do. Young boys grow up. Old men die. The world moves on.But, some things remain. Whether burned in the heart, written in a book, recorded on a sphere, or captured on film; memories endure and are passed on from one generation to the next. Most call it history. Some call it story. It is all the same thing and, like time, it has no end.  
  
  
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He lit his pipe and exhaled heavily, propping his feet up on the ottoman. Charlie had taxed him today. Keeping one step ahead of the precocious youngster often left him worn to a frazzle. Thankfully, the boy was usually quiet in the evenings; occupying himself with aeon coloring books, or like tonight, with the video broadcasts out of Neo Bevelle. He was gazing blank-eyed through the hazy ring of smoke curling around his head, when Charlie — his freckles standing out more than usual from the flush of his pre-bed bath — pointed excitedly at the screen and asked a question._   
_   
That's your old station isn't it, Grampa? Where you used to work?  
  
Banosh lifted his chin and squeezed his eyes nearly closed — trying to make out the logo on the microphone the commentator had shoved in the face of the blitz player. Yeah, that's the one.  
  
Charlie's gap-toothed grin conveyed pure delight. He loved to hear Grampa tell his stories. When you got Grampa going he forgot you were a little kid. Sometimes he didn't understand what Grampa said, but it made him feel just like a real grownup when Grampa used The Bad Words and stuff like that. Tell me again about the time you met Yenta Ronso.  
  
Not tonight, kiddo, Banosh drawled, and then shook his head almost apologetically. I'm beat down to my socks.  
  
Kiddo wasn't all that disappointed; scrambling to his knees and gesturing at the bookcase. Would it be okay if I looked at your scrapbooks then?  
  
A pipe stem was jabbed in his direction accompanied by the soft curve of a melancholic smile. Sure, but not for too long. You've got school in the morning.  
  
  
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Banosh was dozing on and off in the chair; his head snapping upright from his chest when his breathing became interrupted by shallow snores. Charlie didn't see that weary struggle or hear those rough sounds; lost in the world of his grandfather's past. He turned the time-brittle sheets reverently as he had been taught to do — careful not to leave finger marks or smudges on the prints. Some of the pictures were a total gross-out and he always flipped past those pages in a hurry. They gave him bad dreams if he looked at them too long. The monster pictures were his favorites. He wished he could have seen some of them in person, but maybe not. He was small — just the right size for a snack.  
  
What's in here? Charlie asked aloud as he turned to a new page. An envelope lay tucked in the spine of the scrapbook. He had never noticed it before.  
  
The last photo I ever shot, Banosh answered, his voice dropping a full octave and his expression gone pensive.  
  
Charlie looked up. Grampa was wide awake and watching him with a weird expression on his face. There must be something really good in the envelope. Can I see? he asked wide-eyed, fingers playing curiously at the glue flap._  
_   
The castors of the ottoman squealed when Banosh straightened abruptly in the chair, his reply close to a shout.   
  
He hadn't looked at the photograph since sealing it up — had vowed never to look at it again. He could be living the high-life and give Charlie a first-class education with the gil that picture would earn. He had been tempted in times of financial stress to seek a buyer for it but had always resisted those urges. Selling it would have been a grossly profane thing to do and would, he believed, cost him his soul. He had often thought about destroying it along with the negative — removing the temptation — but couldn't bring himself to do it. Charlie had no way of knowing any of this. A deep pang of remorse shot through his gut when he saw that the kid was genuinely frightened by his odd behavior; hastily returning the envelope to the portfolio as if it might separate the flesh of his fingers from the bone.  
  
Banosh reconsidered.  
  
Maybe it was time. When he was gone, there would be no one to know the meaning of what he had developed on that last day of his career. It should be passed on — its existence entrusted to younger hands. At his advanced years, there were no guarantees of waking the next day. Shit, no assurances for the next _breath_.  
  
Taking up his pipe once more, Banosh used it to motion at his chest; silently beckoning. It's okay, Charlie. Bring it here, he said. The words were spoken gently, in that quiet way that only the penitent can express.   
  
When his grandson was securely curled up against him, Banosh thought that he had either grown perilously fragile or the boy was getting too big to sit in his lap. He could already feel the circulation in his legs slowing to a numb crawl. Snorting at the inequities of old age, he held the unopened envelope in tremulous hands and began to tell his story.   
  
  
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You could have called it the storm before the calm; the Eternal Calm, that is.   
  
In those days, our humble little planet was anything but sedate. Sin had been attacking with rising frequency and, consequently, most of Spira was a bona fide mess._  
_   
That was good for business, if you made your living the way I did. The standard pay scale for a staff photographer employed by the Luca News Network would never make me rich, but I augmented those meager wages by finagling permission to freelance on the side. There was, in fact, a pile of gil to be made for the right shot — the type of picture that an editor would give his left nut to see at the top of a broadcast or taking up precious real estate above the fold of a front page. An avaricious gleam often found its way to the eyes of the powers-that-be when I'd return from the field — my road-worn camera-bag crammed with fresh rolls of undeveloped film. My pictures sold broadsheets, sold sponsorships, sold agendas. They all waited impatiently for me to do my thing in the darkroom. Several antsy bureau chiefs had offered to purchase a fancy sphere camera for me — the kind that used pyreflies to instantly record the images. I always refused those offers. I didn't give a grat's ass about the reputation of the organizations I sold my goods to; they simply went to the highest bidder. However, I did care about the quality of my prints. It was the one thing I took pride in._  
_   
Wait, I take that back. That last part's a lie.  
  
To be honest, I got off on all those media sharks drooling over my photographs. It was always a rush to see my work plastered all over the place — and if I'm going to be completely truthful, I have to add that I grew bigheaded over that popularity. I've often told myself that I did it strictly for the money but, looking back, I know I also did it for the attention. I was the man. The guy who delivered the headline — capturing images others hadn't the stomach for or the courage to go after. I was shameless. Fearless. There was an entire file cabinet in my studio of nothing but Sin: in every light, at all angles. If you were looking for a high-quality image of the dreaded destroyer, you looked no further than my archives. I was probably best known for my aftermath stills — corpses awaiting the sending, grieving family members, the wounded, the dying. They were all fair game.Then there were fiends and sinspawn. Armed with nothing more than a trusted pair of running shoes and my camera, I managed to get shots that no one else ever had — creature close-ups — both horrifying and beautiful at once. From the sands of Bikanel to the peaks of Gagazet, nothing and no one was safe from the cross hairs of my lens.  
  
I risked my personal safety time and again to get those pictures. At some point unbeknownst to me, I became addicted to the danger. It got so bad near the end that I couldn't stand everyday life. All I could think about was the next field assignment and how I could top myself. Had things not turned the way they did, I'm fairly sure I wouldn't have lived a whole lot longer. Even back then, I knew that sooner or later my luck would run out. Then, I'd be the headline. Or worse, just another name in the long list of daily obits. Lying in bed at night, unable to sleep, I used to amuse myself by composing my own epitaphs. _Gruesome discovery! Remains of late photo journalist found in the digestive tract of a sand worm, _or_ Ultimate Irony! Distraught widower bludgeons photographer to death with his own camera._ At any rate — in a world choke-full of mortality and destruction — my services were always in high demand.   
  
That's where my tale really begins. I was bored shitless. I had been stuck in the city for weeks; forced to shoot fluffy eight-by-ten glossies of fat dignitaries arriving for the upcoming visit of Grand Maester Mika and the blitz tourney in his dubious honor. Luca was a beehive of activity over the impending events; local reporters buzzing about for a novel angle on the hackneyed topics. One correspondent filed a halfway decent piece on the newest addition to the ranks of the Yevon puppets — delivered via an on-the-street interview. The subject was the youngest summoner to date, Yuna — daughter of Lord High Summoner Braska, no less. That esteemed parentage propelled her through the ranks to the top spot in the wagering. The bookies were taking even-odds after the interview aired. Then she jumped again — posted at five-to-one by that same evening — after the fiend attack at the close of the blitz tournament. I cursed myself for deciding to beat the crowds and catch the final match from the café. Lord Seymour had ended up rescuing the city in spectacular fashion; summoning an ungodly powerful aeon that froze your blood cold, to hear eyewitnesses tell it. Not as fearsome as Sin, mind you, but certainly worthy of a good sphincter-pucker.  
  
Anyway, getting back to the point. Crazier-than-a-purifico-rat Seymour had saved our collective necks, but that wasn't the hot story circulating through the newsroom like a brushfire. The conversation on everyone's lips was that the illustrious Sir Auron had inexplicably reappeared after ten years to join Summoner Yuna's pilgrimage. _That's_ what had suddenly tipped the odds in her favor and stolen Lord Seymour's thunder. If _I_ were the type to waste my money on gambling, I'd have bet there would be payback coming for that transgression. Lord Seymour's ego was bigger than his hair. It must have chapped his ass good that Sir Auron was the talk of the town instead of him.  
  
Every social class had a different name for the man. The muckety-mucks referred to Sir Auron as The Crimson Warrior. The jocks and the dory crews called him The Dude in Red. If you were partial to the political spin of church spokesmen, he was The Legendary Guardian. They could call him whatever they wanted, his handle made no nevermind to me. What I cared about — what had me _salivating_ — was being the first to get the man on film. I could name my price for a good shot of Sir Auron. Not to mention the revenue that a signed limited edition would bring in. Those greedy thoughts had my head spinning; trying to think of a believable excuse to leave my current assignments. I had to get my ass on the road to track him down — _and fast_ — before some shutterbug beat me to it.  
  
As luck or fate would have it, my managing editor gave me what I wanted on a gilded platter when he summoned me to his dank basement office the following morning. I made a convincing show of disappointment as he informed me he was pulling me off the city beat to go after something else. He wanted artsy portraits of all the currently journeying summoners and their guardians on file — explaining he didn't know if any of them would succeed in defeating Sin, but he wanted to be ready to break the story if one group actually accomplished the rare feat.  
  
In my excitement to be off, I didn't even spare the time to return home. I simply helped myself to a fistful of petty cash from the office till and purchased what I hoped would be enough film on my way out of the city.  
  
By early afternoon of the next day, I already had all the snaps I needed of Summoner Dona, and then some. The overbearing babe and her beefcake companion had been delighted to pose — which pissed me off no end. I wanted candid photos, not the staged crap everyone else shot. Suffering through that had ended up being worth it though. Dona had volunteered (rather petulantly I might add) that Summoner Yuna's party had been ushered to a forward command post — forced to detour from their intended destination of Djose Temple. I learned this only hours before the doomed __ on the beach below Mushroom Rock Road. Later, I remember laughing along when colleagues offered up callous jokes about how many Crusaders or Al Bhed it took to defeat Sin. There was no doubt about it, we were a _sick_ bunch. Anyway, Dona's irritating pretension aside, she had given me invaluable info. There was only one route to the next temple and, if I busted my hump, I could get ahead of them. The cloister of trials should keep them occupied long enough. I considered lying in wait outside Djose then dismissed it as annoying. Too many official-types to hassle you if you didn't look like you belonged there. Lurking in the roadside bushes was always an option, but usually only led to poisonous bug bites and missed opportunities. Besides, it had no style. So, I made like a bread cart — hauling buns for the Moonflow.  
  
Smug would be an understatement of my attitude when the enormous bulk of a shoopuf's butt came into view. Chocobo Knights had provided protection from fiends during most of the trip. I had come across the downcast band limping afoot toward destinations unrevealed — their feathered mounts roasted to a fare-thee-well courtesy of Sin. Not only had that escort, however degraded, allowed me to make good time, but I had also snagged the required shots of Summoner Isaaru and his sibling Guardians along the way. My self-satisfied mood compelled me to smile a greeting at the fish-faced Hypello as I climbed the steps to have a look around. The place was relatively deserted; just a few agitated Yevonites and the ever-present flimflam artists ready to separate you from your gil in a big way. It had all worked out to my advantage. I determined I had at least an hour before Summoner Yuna and company arrived. That would give me time to do an equipment check with enough left over to toss some food in my pie-hole.  
_  
_The sky was heavily overcast and I sat down on the edge of the passenger platform to switch out my camera back — loading up a higher speed film. Then, I kept one eye on the path leading in to the south wharf while I took some light readings, adjusted my settings accordingly, and cleaned the lens.   
  
That's probably what saved my life.  
  
Had my head not been bent over my camera just then it surely would have been separated from my shoulders. I barely registered the deafening bellow, before the wall of the shoopuf's tail swatted me from my perch and helplessly skyward. If I had any thoughts while sailing through the air before landing unconscious in the grass, I don't recall what they were.  
  
It was nearing dusk when I came to — the bulbous eyes of the handler hovering inches above my face — and I remember distinctly how rancid the creature's breath was as it spoke. Ish youz okay?  
  
I don't know, I said. Are all my body parts still attached?  
  
His reply was a gurgling chuckle and I figured that was a yes, so I sat up and took stock. Aside from a screaming backache and some impact-rash — I was whole. What the flipping-farplane happened? I asked, more curious than angry.  
  
the handler explained succinctly enough, and then sauntered off to leave me blinking at his back.  
  
What a way to go out, I mused — killed by shoopuf flatulence. I barked laughter at my shoelaces, my guffaws rapidly tapering into a protracted groan. It definitely hurt to laugh. My next thought was for my equipment and my pain was suddenly forgotten. The tools of my trade still sat, undamaged, on the ground below the platform. I considered this no small miracle. Gratefully shouldering my bag, I headed for the passenger shelter where a merchant gave me the news I already knew — Summoner Yuna had come and gone. My empty stomach would have to wait. If I wanted to make the north wharf I had better get my ass to the lift, the last crossing of the day was leaving.  
_  
_It never occurred to me to give up and turn for home, although I sometimes wish it had. As it was, I made the last crossing wedged between two Crusaders. They smelled like all soldiers do that have faced imminent death and lived to tell about it. I didn't comment on the sour odor of dried fear-sweat that clung to them, saving my complaints for the animal lumbering along beneath us. The foul beast got an earful before we reached the other side of the flow. Thanks to the shoopuf's gastronomic distress, The Dude had escaped and now I would be forced to pay a visit to one of my least favorite locales: Guadosalamie. That place always gave me the heebie-jeebies — even after they turned it into a tourist attraction years later.  
  
If I were a violent man, I would have strangled the Guado who haughtily informed me that I had missed them again. I took some satisfaction in telling the big-handed snot, pointblank, that I didn't give a flying funguar about the marriage proposal his precious Lord Seymour had offered to Summoner Yuna. Furthermore, I told him I would feel sorry for the poor girl if she was actually stupid enough to take the bubble-gutted loon up on the deal. Needless to say, I didn't tarry long in Guadosalam as my objective was elsewhere; coupled with the logic that after my enraged outburst it might be a bright idea to get the flock out of there.  
  
Let me tell you though, if you think the Thunder Plains are unnerving in the daytime, try crossing in the _dark_. The lights of Rin's Travel Agency never looked so good.  
  
I was too energized to sleep when I learned my quarry was cooling his boot-heels within those very walls. So, I showered, gathered up my bag, and left the bed untouched. I spent the remainder of the night chatting up the pretty Al Bhed at the front counter, my eyes occasionally roaming to the archway. The clerk had naively coughed-up that Sir Auron was resting in the room just adjacent to Summoner Yuna's. The notion that I could sneak down the hall, throw the door open, and catch the famous monk in his skivvies amused me something fierce. Wouldn't _that_ make a best-selling poster? The Yevon censors would never have signed off on it though, that's for damn sure.  
  
The first inkling of light outside found me ready and waiting under the security of the nearest tower — stamping my feet and blowing into my cupped hands to stay warm. I was just about ready to move around the other side of the structure to take a much-needed leak, when the agency doors swung open and the big-guy himself strode through.  
  
Showtime.  
  
They all heard me coming, their heads turning in my direction as I loped along the trail. Not one of them moved — the whole gang simply observing me in silence. I presumed the camera in my hand and a lack of claws told them I was harmless. Coming to a stop, I rotated and squared my shoulders — holding my breath to ensure my hands were steady before firing. The profit from that group shot outside Rin's would see me fed and housed for a long time to come. It was near perfect. Had it included Lady Rikku and Sir Auron, it would have made me a small fortune.  
  
I could feel their eyes following me as I casually trotted off. The thief turned guardian cringed as I went by — her hands clasped at her throat and her shoulders hunched, as though she was expecting me to smack her upside the head with my camera, rather than take a cursory snapshot from my waist as I passed. I'd catch a ration from my editor for that blurry photo, but I didn't care. What stood up ahead — his broad back looming out of the murk like a lurid spotlight — drew me like a moth. I was _this close_ to bagging Sir Auron and the adrenaline dump sent my feet into double-time as I went by the legend — skidding to a halt some feet beyond him and turning. I was denied my prize on the first shot. A thick ribbon of lightning struck ground not ten feet off to our left at the exact same moment the flash went off, and I knew the over-exposure would wash out all the details.  
  
The unassailable specter before me didn't budge. I wanted to whoop for joy when I realized I had been given a second chance. I had the audacity to consider for a moment that I should ask him if he wouldn't mind lowering the collar just a skosh. Sir Auron didn't strike me as the type that would take too kindly to that though. For one thing, he obviously wore that accessory for a reason; not the least of which was probably to help hide the severe facial scar. As for the others, who knew? Protection, anonymity — it could have been any number of things.  
  
Not willing to risk a second screw-up I switched over to manual, killing the auto-flash. Then I prayed my settings were okay and depressed the shutter several times in quick succession; the aperture opening and closing in a rapid series of whirling clicks. It occurred to me just then that, perhaps, it would lend Sir Auron's persona even more substance; the fact that you couldn't see what lay beneath. There was marketable mystery there; that and good old-fashioned sex appeal. The ladies would eat it up.  
_  
_I still observed no reaction from Sir Auron upon lowering the camera and recklessly offered him a gloating smirk. Then I took the added luxury of studying him for a moment. There was no disputing the venerable veteran cut an imposing figure. I found it amazing that he had made it this far with that gargantuan sword — the guy was a walking lightning rod. He didn't seem concerned in the least and stood boldly in middle of the path, as though impervious to anything that nasty place might throw at him: bolt, fiend, or annoying paparazzo. His self-assured presence had almost made me feel safe in the wild landscape that surrounded us — an idea that proved imprudent when the man finally responded.  
  
It started with a turn to one side as he swept a grievously toned arm from his bright overcoat. Then his rugged face disappeared almost completely behind the gray shroud when he dipped his chin; a singular narrowed eye discharging rusty flame over the dark glint of his shades and as a final point — a gloved hand gave the great blade an ominous twitch.  
  
What followed was definitely a humbling experience. This was impossible. It couldn't be happening to the bravest badass to ever hoist a camera. Nevertheless, Sir Auron's actions sent a sudden shift through my bowels, and I came within a hair's breadth of filling my pants right then and there.  
  
Did you get enough? Sir Auron asked me then, his deep voice colored with sarcasm, overlying a slightly more subtle tone of threat; a note I dearly hoped was incidental.  
  
I didn't answer him right off — my camera dangling from its wrist-strap like an anchor, mooring me to the spot — too terrified to move or speak.  
  
Um, yeah. I mean, Yes, Sir Auron, I eventually fumbled idiotically. If I remember right, I believe I made an attempt at the old Yevon Prayer then; desperately thinking the sign of respect would spare me the sight of my own intestines lying in a steaming pile at my feet. Unfortunately, it didn't do a thing to appease Sir Auron. In fact, it seemed to fuel his ire, his body going perfectly still as he watched me awkwardly perform the unpracticed movements.  
  
Then go, he simply said. There was intense power in the timbre of that uncomplicated utterance — more than adequate to penetrate even the foggiest of brains and stimulate my immobile limbs into instantaneous reaction.   
  
Turning so fast I nearly did a face-plant, I ran. Not the cocky, leisurely jog I usually employed but the panic driven sprint of a man fleeing certain death — a real lung-burner that carried me back the way I had come; over the nightmare ridges of bolt-fried earth and toward the eerie haven of the Guado. I was never sure afterwards but, during that headlong dash, I could have _sworn_ I heard Sir Auron's resonant laughter chasing me through the storm.  
  
It was an exhausted and demoralized man that arrived back in Luca six days hence. It took a thirty-minute shower and a steak thick as a Yevon pretext to restore me to any semblance of my former self. Protocol dictated that I should check-in at work, but I ignored that imperative. I couldn't let them see me like this. Better to rest up, develop my pictures, and hit the streets in the morning with a firmer grip.  
  
You would never find a happier fellow than I, when secreted away in my darkroom; like some quasi-vampire only comfortable in the shadows. Yes, I did love the excitement of being on the road but this was where the action _really_ was. I felt more rejuvenated just being there and began to whistle as I tapped a finger against the safelight suspended above the counter, setting the viscous liquid inside into motion. A deep, muddy green bloomed from the swirling phosphor; enabling me to see enough not to stub a toe or more importantly, ruin my film.   
  
Only a photographer can appreciate the smell of freshly poured darkroom chemicals. A magical perfume which gives birth to our work. It's the closest thing to procreation without sex — to see the images come to life in the embryonic fluid of the developer bath. I tortured myself by saving Sir Auron for last; the anticipation so acute my hands were shaking as I agitated the emulsified sheet back and forth in the trays and hung that eagerly awaited trophy on the line to dry.  
  
Even in the dim swamp-light of the safety orb, I saw immediately. There was something amiss. Blobs of discoloration obscured Sir Auron's outline from his chest upward in a sinuous vapor — at first faint then growing like a virus as I watched — until they covered the entire upper-third of the exposure.  
_  
_My first thought was that I had screwed the pooch and I sidled down the row to more closely examine the rest. The other processing was fine. Some of it more than fine. Some of those shots were going to make my editor very happy and my wallet very heavy. That did little to lessen my outrage. So angered I could barely breathe, I jerked the negative from the cartridge and spun to shove my way through the revolving door and into the normal light of the work area beyond. Cursing nonstop, I impatiently jammed my fingers into some gloves before I slapped the strip on my light table, flicked on the fluorescent, and snatched up the loop sitting nearby to study the neg. Whatever it was, it was part of the image and not, as I wished, only an error in developing. I couldn't see any real detail on that small piece of film and returned to the darkroom to yank the enlargement from its clip. Once back in the outer room I suspended the magnifier above the print, closed my left eye, and pressed my right against the far end.  
  
What was revealed to me through that scrutiny defied the accepted laws of existence. It tossed aside all the rules of my craft and challenged every value I called my own.  
_  
_There were layers upon layers of uncountable figures there; moving in perfect three-dimensional perspective into the distance behind Sir Auron. I recognized the person in the foreground, positioned just behind him. The elaborate headpiece worn by Lord Braska was unmistakable. A striking woman on his opposite side could be none other than Sir Auron's mother — the resemblance was too keen to make her otherwise and the hand placed on his shoulder spoke clearly of a maternal bond.  
  
No confusion clouded my mind about what I was seeing. The answer was communicated so vividly through the image that it bordered on the audible. There was more represented here than relations — those that loved him, keeping watch — it was every soul who had ever died at the hands of Sin, or under the yoke of injustice. A thousand years of the murdered. The sacrificed. They were all there with him: the young and the old,every race, gender and creed. _All of them._ Standing in unwavering support as if to say, Go get em Dude in Red. We've got your back.  
_  
_I wondered if he felt them. If he _knew_. And, if he did, did they give him resolve? Did he take strength from the knowing?  
  
I wondered. I've wondered every day since.  
  
  
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Look well, my boy, Banosh said. At last unsealing the envelope, he carefully slipped the print out and held it up to show his grandson.  
  
This is the image that shamed me from my vocation. It is the face of genuine honor and real courage. The very definition of what it means to be a hero. The reason you will grow up in a world without Sin. The reason you have a chance to grow up at all. Sir Auron was the true champion of the people of Spira. Never forget that and _never_ let this picture or the negative out of your possession. Those sharks can't _ever_ get their hands on this, Charlie. It just wouldn't be right, it Banosh's voice faded, a hand coming up to push what was left of his hair back over the top of his head.  
  
I promise, Charlie whispered, earnestly pressing his small hands to either side of Banosh's tired face. I Promise. I'll always keep it safe and remember what it means. I'm really proud of you, Grampa, for what you did. Then the boy grinned. You're the man.  
  
Banosh smiled back; the weight of this long carried burden finally lifted from his worn out heart. He was ready for the Farplane now. Let death come for him, he no longer feared it.  
  
His soul was prepared or should he say, pardon the pun — properly developed.  
  
  
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**_The picture also assures me that we have our friends about us, watching over us at all times; and the influence of such thoughts is to warn us in the hours of temptation, and also to reconcile us to the trials of life, and open our hearts to deeds of charity.  
  
_**_— Moses A. Dow, as quoted in The Personal Experiences of William H. Mumler in Spirit-Photography._


End file.
